My Ocean, my Sky, my Home, my Love
by ThingsToDoAtWalmart
Summary: Nearly 1500 years have passed since King Arthur's death, and Merlin has been...inwardly disturbed, to say the least. It's when he's confronted by a blue-eyed, hot tempered reincarnation of a special someone that he begins to collapse and submit to long since buried feelings for his king. Along with these temptations there's the matter of the Old Religion and once more defying fate.
1. Prologue

A/N: Greetings Merthur fans! This is my first Merlin fanfic (technically) so all of this will be completely risqué. In relation to the poem at the beginning of this, I owe my discovery of it to my sixth grade language arts curriculum. Yeah, it was a poem that we read in class—but cut me some slack! It totally spoke to me as a Merthur prompt. If it doesn't make any sense now, don't worry, it will make sense later on. That is…if I _get_ to later on…as in, assuming that I don't run out of steam by then. BTW, reviews supply lots and lots of steam! Sorry about the short prologue, but chap. 1 will be up really soon!

. . . .

_When I was young my mother rocked me  
her rocking chair waves on maternal sea.  
I slept to a rhythm deep inside  
ebb and flow—briny night ride._

When I was older we moved to this boat  
that rocks all night—holds me afloat.  
In morning light I stretch, rise  
still held tight while riding tides.

Sun from sea washes my walls.  
Sky-spawned rain spills waterfalls.  
Ocean below me, I drift above fish.  
Cast a pebble from my window. Make a wish.

Water stars shimmer up from the deep  
Moon above, beneath while I sleep.  
A rocking boat bed that holds my dreams,  
my tears, my fears, my in-betweens.

I'm now too heavy for a lap to hold  
no one rocks a child this old.  
Yet every night I sway in sea air  
rocked aloft by Neptune's lair.

Held in my bed in the bow of my boat  
in the hold of my ship, home I float.  
Buoyed, tossed, swayed by ocean's flow  
a gift to grow up this wild and slow.

Like reins on a horse as it canters the moors  
or string on a kite while it soars  
I tie my house to the end of the pier  
so when I come home, it will still be here.

As I set my own sails, make my way  
anchor pulled up, inner compass in play  
thrum of billow, seasoning of sea  
my rocking house harbor now rides inside me.

—_Rocking House_, by C. Drew Lamm

. . . .

_**Prologue:**_

"I cannot lose him! He's my friend!"

Denial. Denial, fury, pain, desperation—the worst, most sickening kind of desperation.

Vision blurred and one insistent string of thought: _Please_.

The sentiment, the _imploration_ could go no farther than this.

_**Please**_.

When I heard Kilgharrah speaking again, his pitying tone and condescending voice alerted me to the losing fight that was this request. As my system started to shut down he continued to attempt consoling me. "Though no man, no matter how great, can know his destiny, some lives have been foretold, Merlin. Arthur is not just a King—he is the Once and Future King. Take heart, for when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again. It has been a privilege to have known you, young warlock—the story we have been a part of will live long in the minds of men."

The roar of wings batting and fading in the distance could appeal only to my ears. Tears flooded my eyes and destroyed any hope of seeing through my already impaired vision—impaired by what, I wasn't sure. Most likely some more denial. And some more fury, some more pain, and hey: why not a little more _despair_ to collapse on my shoulders?

I tried to pretend that it wasn't him. That this limp body in my arms was not Arthur's and that the cheek pressed to my own was not cooling with the chill of death and that the young face was not paling in expiration.

_Please…please…please…_

He didn't open his eyes. He didn't stir, didn't look up at me with an irritable, groggy expression and demand to know what time it was that I dared waked him. He just…lay—he lay in perfect, beautiful youth that settled from pink and boyish to angelic and sadly wasted as I gently and tremblingly settled him in the grass and looked up with strained eyes.

Blue glass water reflected a grey world to me, a single turret protruding from the cloud of mist to stand high and proud, like a lone tribute to the King at the center of the lake.

_Please…please…_

Maybe one day, whatever plea I could not properly form in this moment would be answered. I could only pray to the Triple Goddess that this was true.

_**PLEASE….PLEASE…PLEASE…**_

()()

_**Give him back. Just give him back.**_


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Heh heh, I promised chap. 1 would be up very soon! Of course, I didn't think it would be **_**this**_** soon…but to tell you the truth, I actually typed up this chapter **_**before**_** I made the prologue. That's why it's so quick! And remember! **_**Every time a reader reviews, a writer gets its wings!**_

"_I started blurring the lines because I didn't care;  
I started crossing the line because you were never there.  
Nowhere to turn, no one to help—  
It's almost like I don't even know myself."_  
—_Loves Me Not_, t.A.T.u.

. . . .

Sometimes it burns.

Sometimes, when I'm by myself and the weight of the world rests mercilessly on my shoulders, it sets my withered, over-used heart aflame just for the sake of roasting the nerves and coating the already ugly surface with soot.

Sometimes it's a weak flame, and others it's a raging fire that—whatever the degree of misery it's produced by—exhausts and agonizes me without rest.

Sometimes I can taste the misery: bitter and bland and as unforgiving as the world is unfamiliar to me now. A creature born of the Earth—the creature born of the Earth has never felt so out of tune with nature. So lost to the once green and beautiful and friendly surface of the forests and villages.

In a way, I'm curious about that every once in a while. In a way, I wonder _why_ it feels so different now. Perhaps it's because, slowly, the familiarity of the world has been disappearing for years and years and years.

Presently, the forest near the spot where he died is a highway. The lake is still there, sort of, but the green trees, the berry bushes where he and I used to rest during the longer, more pain-staking hunting trips (for me at least—he never complained because he didn't have to carry the load), and the soft-grassed campsite that I innocently and with very much coincidental-ness would lead him back to every nightfall during those same trips: all gone.

Paved over by roads and stores and malls and the like.

That's okay though because I don't really think about that time a lot anymore now. Over the years I've learned that it's easier if I don't intentionally dwell on those memories. Not because it's too painful—though that's not to say it doesn't burn like hell—but because usually when I start to think about it too hard, I start to get lost in the melancholy memoir.

I can't help but drift from heart-breaking to crushing to destroying, until I'm left void of all emotion and all desire to go on. It makes it hard to breathe, and this is a problem not because I avoid feeling so lifeless (that's inevitable anyway), but because it's sort of inconvenient and draws attention pretty quickly when you abruptly start hyperventilating in public.

For some reason I keep counting the years since he left me. Since he left Camelot and left his friends alone. I don't know why I do it, since with every new year I end up drinking myself into oblivion and passing out on the too-big bed in my apartment with wet eyes and a broken will that just…doesn't have the strength to release tears.

I stopped crying over him after the first decade. Mostly because the interior of my body is so hollow and empty that there are no tears _left_ to cry. The first year after he was gone was…rather horrific to say the least. A crushing…_violent_ cycle of getting angry—looking determinedly for something, _anything_, to just bring him _back_ to me—and then losing steam, sobbing, screaming, collapsing. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I never did any of this outside my own room, of course, except for one time. The knights were the only ones there, though. I guess I should have been thanking the Triple Goddess that Gwen wasn't in the room when I lost control like that. She…with the state she was in, she wouldn't have been able to handle seeing me like that.

It started with a brief, meant-to-be-cheering-up comment from Leon to all of the knights and myself that Gwen would still do a wonderful job of taking Arthur's place. And, very abruptly, my magic seemed to take control of my whole body and I was shattering things against the walls as the knights took cover, and I was standing there at the center of the chaos, eyes glowing gold, sobbing uncontrollably as I fell to my knees.

After a few minutes Percival was able to make his way to me, and at his grip on my shoulders all of the strewn objects dropped to the floor clatteringly. I started babbling incoherently about who knows what. Somewhere in there I was able to choke out something like, "N—nobody…nobody…_ever_…!" and was silenced by Percival's pulling me against his shoulder and shushing me gently.

None of the knights rebuked me that day. At first I thought it was because they were suddenly afraid of me (once he died, the whole truth had come out about my magic), but now I think it was because they all just felt terribly sorry for me. The only other person who had ever publicly displayed so much grief for his death was Guinevere.

And, boy, wasn't _her_ life absolutely falling apart around her. With her husband gone, she turned to me for guidance. "The King would have wanted you at his side, and I will not fail his wishes." However, rather than doing all of the things that she'd hoped to do as the Queen of Camelot, I noticed a strong development of an Uther-like complex in her as the first years passed.

Probably because all the things she'd wanted to do, she'd wanted to do not as the Queen, but as _his_ Queen. In reality she was a horrible leader without his reason and compassion for his cause. I could not answer the inquiries which she aimed at me, for they were questions that I could not answer. They were questions which she herself was just too scared to respond to.

"What do I do, Merlin?" She would often ask me this question with tears in her eyes and desperation in her tone. "Just tell me what I'm supposed to do!"

"My Queen, I've no better compromises than you,"

"Please, Merlin, help me!"

"I do not know, Gwen." At this she would break into tears in a collapsing heap and, after a moment of debating, I would leave her chambers and not come back for the rest of the evening.

Everyone was affected by his passing, not just Gwen and me. Even Gaius looked a little frailer in the following years. Nobody seemed to have the strength that they used to, and—even though magic was now freely circulating in Albion—it felt like nothing had been achieved.

It seemed an unspoken truth between all of us: Surely, _surely_ Albion would fall without him here. How could this have been his and my destiny? Even today I wonder that. The dragon, the spokeswomen of the goddess, the Fisher King—so many people told me that we were meant to do great things and that we were to unite Albion and bring magic back to the land. But nobody had told me that he would…that he would _leave_ me like that in the end.

All of them had known it would happen, all of them knew exactly how it would play out, but they didn't even warn me about that. Surely, they could have at least had the humanness to warn me of the suffering that would occur from all of it? Then again, I suppose if I'd known I would have completely disassociated myself with the whole destiny. Myself and _him_, that is. I might have even gone to the lengths of tying him up in a cave or something.

But I'd not been offered a chance to change the future at all, and I guess that's the reason for it.

All any of the prophets had cared about was the return of magic—He and I were just tools in the upbringing of it.

For many years, I watched as Albion began to build itself up and then slowly fall apart again—piece by piece. Gwen's previously pure heart had been so twisted by agony at his passing that she just couldn't hold on for very long. She always trusted me more than she should, and once more I was burdened with the weight of the world on my shoulders.

I guess, in a way, Guinevere sort of started to lose herself after a while. It occurred to her as she began to reach her mid-thirties, that she'd yet to produce an heir to the throne. Yet to re-marry. And, though it didn't really surprise me, I was more than a little put off when she finally turned to me once again. She'd always trusted me—as I said, more than she should—and she easily convinced herself that, if she had to be with anybody else ever again after him, I could be the only one.

I denied her as gently, but as forcibly as possible. It was at that moment in time that I realized how Gwen really was starting to lose it. And it was scary—to watch somebody that I cared so much about lose her senses to madness and loneliness. Eventually she settled for a neighboring lord, but there was no real affection in it. I think she merely did it so as not to completely destroy her late husband's legacy. The child born between her and the lord would not be of his blood, but he would at least carry on in ruling Albion devotedly—as he would have wanted.

More years passed…and then people I loved started to leave me. Unsurprisingly, Gaius was the first to go. _That_ I was able to numb away with a few alcohol-filled days in the tavern. Next was Gwen, who everybody I think had seen coming. For so long had she been broken and incomplete—in a way, all of us were almost mournfully happy for her when she could finally leave this world so filled with pain for her, and perhaps she joined him at that time.

For some reason, I hope that isn't true.

I know it's cruel and selfish, but in a way, I hope that he is still a part of this world. I hope that he has become a part of the Earth just as I was born from it. The thought of his life force—of his _essence_—being in the very air I breathe is enough to get me through one day at a time. And other people shouldn't be a part of the Earth as he is.

Anyway, about half of Camelot joined me in the tavern on that day. Her son took the throne, young and nervous, and the fall of Albion was certain—to me, at least. I was the only one to give up faith in him so quickly. But all I could think as he commanded _my_ king's land was that he had none of the true king's bravery, none of the passion or the strength or the mercy.

By this time, I was starting to realize that I was immortal in some way. I grew, I aged, but I didn't die. I sort of wish that I could, just because I'm curious as to where I would end up (_Maybe, just maybe with _him_ if I'm really lucky_?), but it was strange because physically I didn't feel so weak as I did mentally. It was more so my body and mind that aged rather than my…_soul_, I suppose? My life force?

I did not stop practicing magic over the years and it was starting to really become clear to me how powerful I actually was. It sort of made me sick at this point. The aging spell now went in both directions and could be held easily on my part. There was no limit on time, no weakening from it, just a strange and raw kind of power that I had never experienced before. To this day it is that easy. In fact, I use that spell constantly.

So I just watched as my friends continued to fall, and I felt as inhuman as stone as they died heroically and proudly for the sake of a crumbling Camelot and I just tried to help in any way I could, as cold and nearly immortal as Morgana herself. A mortal blade could wound me, but never could it deliver a fatal blow.

Percival…Leon…eventually my mother, and the village people from Ealdor…In the next decade, everyone I had been friends with was dead.

I had to watch as Albion crumbled, slowly, slowly, painfully, and a new civilization started to form. I traveled aimlessly for centuries as the world started to turn into an unfamiliar, strange place. Eventually, magic faded from the world and I watched wordlessly as it all turned to legend. Magic…dragons…and eventually, Camelot…Morgana…_him_…

A dream-like notion that was inconceivable to any and all people around the world. A children's tale. Sometimes I amuse myself by looking at the artwork focused on Camelot and him. It's so incredibly inaccurate that I just giggle and people look at me strangely, but I just stand there like an average young man with my hands in my pockets, headphones hanging from my ears, messy ebony hair and dirty jeans but tired—no, exhausted—blue eyes.

How easy it was. How sickeningly easy it was to blend into the changing society of the world, to go unrecognized as the most powerful warlock to ever walk the Earth. It'd been a long time since I'd had to hide my powers. Since I'd gone unrecognized for my deeds. At least a century after the battle with Morgana—after _he_ fell—there were still people bowing to me upon meetings on crossroads and coincidental bumps in town. Hell, people used to come to me to pray.

This was always quite awkward for me and I had absolutely no idea how to accommodate their prayers to me—despite the fact that I was perfectly (okay, mostly) human—and it wasn't like I had some divine power to make money fall from the sky or rouse loved ones from the dead (how well I know the deprivation of that ability).

But soon…people didn't recognize me in the streets anymore. People didn't take second looks at me and then start hyperventilating in awe and premeditated reverence. People didn't come to me in prayer or any other kind of pledging.

Oh, how quickly I changed from Emrys, the prophet-spoken man who saved Albion from destruction alongside the Once and Future King, to the good looking boy down the road who had always acted a little strange now that I think about it. And even quicker did I turn invisible and become a part of the scenery as an odd, ominous young man that really shouldn't even be bothered with.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. The translucence makes it a lot easier to hide my…abilities. I'm so comfortable with my magic that truthfully, I don't even need incantations anymore. If I concentrate hard enough and think very seriously about it, I can perform magic without even opening my lips. Sometimes it's harder to block the glint of gold in my irises when I do risky stuff like that, but I always manage one way or another.

After all, I'm still around after all these years and still undiscovered.

Sometimes I wonder how I made it this long. Not necessarily made it this long without being found out, but made it this long without…I don't know, giving up. If I wanted, I could have taken over Camelot—it's not like Gwen wouldn't have let me—and I could have raised the new world on magic and myth. But I didn't. And I'm still not quite sure why.

I've yet to move away from the general area where Camelot was all that time ago, and sometimes when I'm walking alongside the road and I look at the lake, I think of him. And I think of that wooden boat sailing away in the distance. That wooden boat sailing away with my dreams and my world and my life. My very will to love was taken away with the quiet movement of that little dingy.

Even in this very moment as I scurry through the cold down the side of the busy street, I glance briefly sideways towards the lake (the motion has become routine) and remember all too clearly the horrible sinking feeling as he was taken away from me by the gentle flow of the lake and the nearly irrepressible urge to run into the water after him.

All of the pain I'd ever been inflicted by his ignorance of my magic could not match the crushing defeat and self-pity I felt watching him drift away from me. As he'd been doing since he became King. Every day he'd been drifting a little farther away from me, and I'd let it happen, so maybe in retrospect it's my fault that I could not stop him from being as careless as he was.

However, that's not important right now. Irritated, I shake off the thought as I pause in the grass to check my buzzing cell phone. (You will never even begin to guess how long it took me to figure out the fundamentals of a cell phone.)

It's Tex again.

_Are you coming back soon? I could eat an elephant, I'm so hungry. _

Miffed, I stifle a laugh even in my own company on the side of the road and respond slowly (with clumsy fingers that press the wrong letters on the touch screen),

_As it happens, we live in a temperate maritime climate, and there is a 0% expectancy that you will find an elephant anywhere near the apartment. So you really ought to keep your pants on and let me get back when I get back._

_Don't be so proud of yourself with your little technical terms, Merlin. I learned all that maritime and temperate stuff in sixth grade: you're not super intelligent._

_Oh yeah right, like you have any idea what a temperate maritime climate is._

_Merlin, do _you_ have any idea what a temperate maritime climate is?_

_Absolutely not._

She doesn't respond. Tex is about thirteen years old, and the only person in the world who knows that I'm a warlock. Who knows about my past and even _begins_ to study the depths of my misery. I've been "taking care of her" since she was ten due to her drunkard father kicking her out of their house in Nashville, Texas (hence her nickname) which I happened to be passing through for about the fifty-fourth time in my life when I found her sobbing on the side of the road.

Funny enough, I happened to be good acquaintances with her great, great grandmother, Blythe Julian. When we realized this, for whatever reason, we just stared at each other and then broke out in hysterical laughter that lasted about a full five minutes.

She's lived with me in my apartment since then, which might be weird once she gets older, except Tex is pretty sure that she's lesbian (I find it best to not question the early decision of a thirteen year old girl's sexuality and to just go with the time flow—people in the 21st century are insane) and the very idea of "ugh…_kissing_ a _guy_…" makes her cringe. So, there will be pretty much zero awkwardness in our living together once she's old enough to even consider sex. I not-very-secretly dread that day.

As I tuck the phone back in my pocket, I continue walking along the road towards the convenient store—the destination? The food isle. The objective? To buy the jumbo bag of candy bars on the second shelf. The motivation? Tex and I have been _fricking_ starving all day, and candy seems the most appealing way to fix this problem.

On my way out of the convenient store, Tex texts me again and as I'm looking down at the little words on the screen, I start to notice some sort of headache right in the back of my cranium. That's probably what I get for dedicating a portion of my day to thinking about him, as usual.

_Okay, seriously now, I'm going to die of hunger if you don't get back soon._

I sigh, suddenly feeling the exhaustion that the throbbing in my head often brings to surface.

_I'm on my way._

And as I walk back towards the apartment, I glance once more at the lake—which seems to serve as his grave in my eyes—and allow myself the low whisper in which my lips barely move, "Miss you," I then continue on and don't look at the water again.

. . . .

"Finally! I'm so hungry!" Tex bursts the moment she opens the door and then yanks me inside hastily.

Grumbling indignantly, I slip out of my rain coat while she goes into the kitchen, dumps the whole bag in a bowl, and comes back into the living room. For a moment she pauses, looking at the red color staining my cheeks and fingers from the cold, like she only just noticed that I was even here.

"Do you want some tea or something? You look pretty cold."

"No, it's fine," I respond with a sigh, yanking a blanket off the couch as she settles down in front of the TV on the floor, leaving a space for me.

Supposedly I'm seven years older than Tex right now, and apparently (according to her rants about my bony body and uncomfortable, angular limbs) I'm supposed to be bigger than her so she can lean on me and stuff like that. However, she's only about a head shorter than me and I'm too skinny to be a very nice substitution for a cushion—after all, I'm pretty sure I wasn't born in the interest of becoming a nice head rest for the whiny teenager Temperance Mitchell.

So we just lean against the couch as she flips nonchalantly through channels, handing me a candy as she goes. "Now then, to continue our discussion: If you didn't have TV's and stuff in medieval times—and yes, I did know that, you smart ass—then what did you do in all your free time?"

I sigh once again—I swear, it feels like I've answered this question a million times for her. "There _was_ no free time, Tex, and if there was I mostly used it to help out Gaius. And don't swear—I keep telling you, it's not lady like." It stings just a little bit to say his name, but I got over that a long time ago. Her next question throws me off completely.

"Am I anything like Gaius?"

"What?" This has nothing at all to do with her original question.

"Am I like your uncle at all?

"No." I answer instantly. "You have absolutely nothing in common with him, except maybe your tendency to overwork me."

She laughs, "Well, at least there's something, then."

"Why?" Usually she only asks sentimental questions like that when there's something bugging her. Usually that something never has anything to do with the question, but just the same.

"I dunno," She shrugs, going back to the television. "Just wondering." I wait for further explanation, but it doesn't come, so I eventually let it go and lean back, paying little attention to the display on the screen as I reach into the bowl.

After some time, when I'm almost asleep, Tex speaks up again. "So Addisyn is coming over tomorrow," Ah. So this is what's wrong. Her tone is meant to be laid back and not at all uncomfortable, but the awkwardness she feels shines unheedingly.

And yet again tonight, I sigh. "That's fine, I ought to actually go shopping tomorrow anyways."

"Are you sure? I mean…" She blushes, "It's not like you have to leave or anything—it's not like we're going to need privacy or anything…"

Addisyn is Tex's best friend and—Tex prays—a hopeful girlfriend in a few years time. The two attend middle school together and Addisyn seems a nice enough girl. I like her perfectly well, but the thought seems to be stuck in Tex's mind that I'm subconsciously homophobic and that, at a point, I'm going to start throwing up or something just at the thought of two girls together.

"Tex," I stare at her with serious blue eyes, "I don't mind your liking her. If you're happy, I'm happy and that's all there is to it. Though I do still think you're too young for a girlfriend…" For some reason it makes me feel warm when I say stuff like that. Probably because not only is it true, but it's a protective emotion that I was void of for so many years before Tex. I was void of it since he left me and never had anybody else I _wanted_ to protect, so _this_, I think, is healthy for me in a way.

"I know, I know," She says angrily, as though irritated with herself, "I just…" She pauses and then starts mumbling. "Dad was fine with it too until he found out…" She's referring to her best friend in elementary school who, in fourth grade, also became her "girlfriend", if you can call it that. And she's referring to the incident that got her thrown out of her home in the first place when she was caught writing her a love note.

So, at the tender change of subject, I reply as impassively and submissively as I can. "Tex, if I caught you writing love letters to Addisyn, the worse scenario for you is that I will read it and never ever let you live it down. Honestly, that would be priceless."

Her cheeks flush, but she laughs nonetheless, and relaxes into my side, despite my "fricking body of a skeleton…"

**A/N: Okay, so I realize that there was lots of angst and no Arthur! :( but be patient Merthur lovelies! He'll probably come in either in the next chapter or the one after. Soon! Also, thanks for the reviews I **_**have**_** gotten so far! They make me feel ooey gooey and special!**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello, everybody! Wow, I'm really spoiling my…9 followers (as of right **_**now**_** ^^) Practically one chapter a night! Please enjoy and REVIEW! I'm BEGGING YOU. 1 review=1 gallon of fuel for writing the next chapter. 3 reviews per chapter=1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 gallons of fuel. :) Oh, also, (maybe I should have done this on the first chapter, but whatever) I should probably tell everybody WHY this story is rated M since I couldn't fit that in my summary.  
~Ahem~ This story is rated M for strong language, questionable themes, obnoxiously detailed ooey gooey romance, obnoxiously detailed angst….pretty much obnoxious detail in general, yuri/yaoi (I honestly don't think that this is call for an M rating, but some people want to be warned about stuff like that), and non-too-descriptive Merthur sexiness in much later chapters. Thanks, guys!**

. . . .

"_Haven't we met?  
You're some kind of beautiful stranger  
You could be good for me  
I have a taste for danger_

If I'm smart then I'll run away  
But I'm not so I guess I'll stay—  
Haven't you heard?  
I fell in love with a beautiful stranger"  
—_Beautiful Stranger_, Madonna

. . . .

Have you ever hung around somebody who's in love? I mean like, really in love? Think about it…

Now, follow up: Have you ever hung around somebody who's in love with_out_ spontaneously wanting to rip out large chunks of hair from your scalp? 'Cause if the answer is yes…well, I'm not about to go accusing anybody of lying, but I would be intrigued to hear about the experience.

I really kind of wish it was easier for people to keep it to themselves, but love is love and irrepressible is irrepressible, I guess.

For example, Tex has been having an absolute fit all morning. In a way it's astoundingly, infuriatingly exasperating, but in another, it's sort of funny. I mean, it's not like I'm about to make fun of her in the angry state she's in…but I definitely think about it.

Never does Tex work so hard for company (cleaning the apartment, digging through her room to clear the mountain of clothes away, prepare food, etc.) as she does when Addisyn is coming over.

"Merlin, for once, try to refrain from being an idiot and go clean up the bathroom!" She doesn't really mean that, so it doesn't hurt my feelings or anything, but I do have to keep from laughing at her outraged expression as she (almost literally) kicks me out of the kitchen where I've been trying to sneak some food out from under her nose. "Seriously, the shit I put up with…!"

"Tex—"

"I swear to God, Merlin, if you tell me to stop swearing one more time I will saw off your tongue with this steak knife."

"…"

Did I mention how abruptly violent she gets as well? Honestly, I've offered to just magic all of the mess away, but the proposal falls on deaf ears every time—mostly because she's applied headphones to block me out.

Anyway, as I go into the bathroom, I figure she won't mind and—with a molten gold glow of energy igniting my irises—all soot and smudges are cleared from sight. It's when I go back into the living room, fearing for my life, that I see Tex standing in the middle of the spic and span area with wide eyes and a blank expression.

"Nobody move! Nobody move!"

One eyebrow rises, but I follow her request and don't move. After a moment, she very carefully—as though worried that if she moves too quickly, all of her progress will disappear—pulls out her headphones and turns to me.

"It's finished…the apartment is officially clean…!"

"Well done, Tex, really—the last time the apartment was 'officially clean' was last Christmas." Guess who happens to be Christian: You guessed it, Addisyn, who also came over that evening due to her parents' detainment on a business trip.

"I really am a cleaning goddess, aren't I?" She praises herself (she's learned to do that, because apparently I never give her the proper praise she deserves) and pulls off her cleaning gloves. A moment later the doorbell rings and I pull on my jacket at the same time Tex jumps and goes to answer the door.

"Sorry, can I help you?" A lot of times they play around with things like this, so I just smile a little as I gather my wallet and cell phone at the playful banter between them.

"Yes, I'm here to collect everything you own due to your reported lack of propriety and manners for your guests."

"Oh, alright then, just don't take my food because we're running dangerously low on that as it is." Addisyn laughs and ruffles Tex's short hair as she lets herself in and starts to take off her jacket. "Merlin's just on his way out." I know she isn't trying to shuffle me out with mean intentions—I learned that a long time ago—she just gets really nervous when I'm in the same room with the two of them. That's understandable, I suppose.

Starting and blushing at her not noticing me upon coming in, Addisyn turns to greet me. "How are you, Merlin?" She smiles brilliantly, and I just have to share a momentary glance with Tex that says 'nice catch' almost teasingly. Gentle brunette curls, freckles, and green eyes like a tropical rain forest—each iris is practically a work of art due to the ring of blue that circles her pupils before shooting into a green, nearly yellow-flecked explosion of color.

"I'm alright, you?"

"Never better," There's an exultant kind of happiness that touches those eyes as she tells me this, like it should be obvious, while one of her hands absently clutches at Tex's forearm.

Repressing a smirk, I duck out the door and utter a low farewell to the two—inserting that it was nice to see Addisyn again—before I finally set off towards the grocery store to stock up on food again, as I do pretty much once a month.

I don't know why, since I used to be really on top of things like that (I guess five years—was it really only five years?—of waiting on him hand and foot actually taught me a sense of strict organization) but ever since Tex has come into my life I've been a lot less controlled. I've been on a downward spiral for ages, but for some reason my methodical order was one thing that lasted.

Then I met the whiniest, laziest, silliest little girl on the planet in the present day, and things changed a little.

So while I'm there I collect the usual—junk food, junk food…junk food…a few bananas…and a life's supply of teabags for Tex. It' only as I'm exiting the store that I feel the headache again. I feel the headache and the burn in the back of my skull and the boiling magic that flows furiously from my spine to my cranium. And I feel eyes, too.

Yes, there are definitely eyes on me.

A gaze that falls on me and just refuses to drop.

So curiously, I look up.

There are no words to describe the way my heart halts abruptly in my chest and the color drains from my face. No words to convey the feeling knotting up deep in my gut.

Because I look up into beautiful, passionate blue eyes.

I see a small child sitting in his yard near the road, playing with his toy car and staring warily across the street at me with big, wide oceanic eyes and messy blonde hair. He's the most gorgeous child I've ever seen. And I guess, subconsciously, I instantly realize who this boy is.

_No way._ It's the only thought to cross my mind. _No way, no way, no way…_

I return his wary look with perhaps even wider eyes, and as the tension grows, the boy looks back down at his car while I keep staring. He can't be older than five, at the most.

Crossing the road almost dazedly, I slowly approach the beautiful child sitting in the grass and looking up at me from beneath long boyish eyelashes. Without coming _too_ close to him, I carefully—very carefully and sloth-like—kneel down before him.

Those unbelievably blue eyes meet mine once again, and my battered heart cracks apart in my chest just to come back together and repeat the separation. I let out a low breath. "…Hello,"

He looks very untrusting with that familiar hesitance that I haven't seen in _so long_. "Hi." He answers in a strong voice, and I feel an abrupt, nearly uncontrollable need to ruffle his hair or stroke his cheek or _something_. But I just smile at him. _God_, he's so adorable. It's strange, because there are a lot of blonde, blue-eyed boys in the world, but somehow…I just _know_ that this is him.

The stubborn set of his jaw, the eyes with a million tell-tale expressions, the lilting lips that tip downwards when he thinks…it's all my king.

"What are you playing?" I ask quietly, gently, like I'm afraid I may shatter the child just by speaking too loudly.

"I'm playing with my monster car…" He answers distractedly, eyeing the bag of sweets under my arm. He always did have a weakness for sweets.

"Want some?" I know that I sound like a complete child predator, but he doesn't seem to be afraid, just surprised.

"Really? Why?"

"I don't need all of it—I'm just one person, after all." I smile kindly, tearing the bag open and reaching in. "Here, hold out your hands."

Cupping his hands together and holding them out for me, I fill them with little candies at which his eyes light up happily.

"Thanks! What's your name?" He asks, suddenly talkative.

I half smirk as he starts to sort through his snacks. "…My name's Merlin. How about you?"

He does that wonderful, well-known sneer with his lips that's always lopsided and confused. "_Mer_lin?"

For the first time in a very, very long time, my heart starts to beat in a regular rhythm. I start to breathe in synch with the Earth and the air. The heat of my blood circulates warmth once more. And the colors around me come to life with more vibrancy and beauty than I can remember seeing since I actually was twenty-four years old. And that was such a long while ago…

My name dancing off his lips in a patronizing, disbelieving sort of tone—that is as old and natural as the circle of life itself. Even in all this outrageously beautiful child's ignorance and casualness of saying it, the syllables sound (and feel) safe when tossed over his tongue.

My uplifting, soaring joy unbeknownst to the boy, he shrugs and continues. "I'm Arthur."

I laugh, "That's a nice name, Arthur," Likewise, it feels like ecstasy itself to speak the familiar name, and to once more address my king with it. My small, happy King Arthur.

"Dad says I'm named after the hero that all the important history people talk about."

Another shaky chuckle, and I settle myself more comfortably in the grass. "Well, you know, they say that King Arthur had a very important friend named Merlin."

He gives his signature dumbfounded grimace. "Are you making that up?"

"Of course not—they went on all sorts of adventures together."

"Hm, in that case _Mer_lin, you can be my very important friend."

I nod tolerantly and maternally as I would have back then, back when we really were so vital to each other's lives. That doesn't matter now, though. Because now, Arthur is sitting right in front of me, and he's telling me he wants me to be his friend, and he's as arrogant and proud as back then, and I've _found_ him. _I've found you._

**A/N: Okay, so here's the thing. The whole scene from "So curiously, I look up." to the end of this chapter was written **_**before**_** the rest of this chapter (I know, I really need to start going in order) so I apologize if it seems oddly out of place from that point to the end. Also, sorry for the sort of abrupt ending, but if I had kept going, it would have taken another chapter's worth of space before I could stop again. On another note, I'm so happy I was able to get this chapter up tonight! Woo hoo! I was so worried that I wouldn't even finish it until this weekend! Double woo hoo! Review, review, review! Please?**

—**Tais Takara**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: AHHHH! I'm so sorry it's taken this long to update! For a while, I was afraid that I might have already lost steam on this story. But no more! Thanks so much for waiting, and I love you all! Enjoy!**

. . . .

"_I've just seen a face,  
I can't forget the time or place  
Where we just met—  
She's just the girl for me and I want all the world to see  
We've met._

"_Had it been another day,  
I might have looked the other way  
And I'd have never been aware—  
But as it is, I'll dream of her tonight."_

—_I've Just Seen a Face, _The Beatles

. . . .

. . . .

Weirdly enough, I never imagined getting him back. The idea—or rather, the image, so cruelly out of reach, and so taunting, could never burn itself behind watery blue eyes. And believe me, it _would_ have burned there. And especially not in such an odd, intriguing (however wonderful) way.

I wasn't around when Arthur was a child, of course. I was being put to work in Ealdor at the same time he was probably frolicking with the witch in the fields of Camelot or something like that. Having the time of his life, as he had always seemed to be when I was working. But I imagined it every once in a while when the subject came up. A blonde child, clothed in purple silk (1), dancing with his dark-haired sister in the sunlight. Happy blue eyes that had yet to dilate with stress and sarcasm.

Once I even asked the witch what he was like as a boy. She responded with laugh and assured me, "He was much more easygoing then. And so easy to control! I used to blame him for letting all the knights' horses out of the stables at night—to be fair, he _did_ help me out with that." However, this contrasted with what Uther had to say about it.

Now, I didn't actually have the nerve to go prancing up to the King of Camelot and take his time to ask what his son was like as a child, because _I was just wondering. _I think he'd probably chop my head off himself if I were to do that.

But this one time, when Gaius was away and Uther's personal servant was sick and not attending work, Arthur asked me to help him out a little bit. "He's a stubborn old man, so he probably won't ask you for help at all, but I want you to be there if he does. Mostly you'll just stand there doing what you do best, Merlin: nothing." I didn't really have a choice in the matter, so I nervously shadowed the King for the rest of the day, looking at him only from the corners of my eyes and hardly ever raising my head for fear that I might _actually_ meet his gaze.

At one point, however, when Uther was busy writing and, I guess, filling all his kingly documents and such, he started speaking. Whether he was speaking to _me_, I'm still not sure. But he _did_ speak, and there _was_ nobody else in the room. "It is a rather sunny day outside." He said it with no infliction, as though it were just a statement of fact, which I guess it was.

"Indeed, my lord."

A short pause, a quiet scratching of quill on paper, and then more words. "I assume Arthur is training right now?"

"I believe he's currently on a hunting trip, sire."

The King rolled his eyes irritably, and I gave no reaction since I wasn't quite sure if I was _meant_ to react. "He was never so irresponsible as a boy."

My curiosity got the best of me and I just had to ask. "Was he very keen to train then?"

"Yes. I have no knight quite so devoted as he was when he was little—that's to be expected, of course, though. He is the Prince of Camelot. Every day he trained with various weapons for several hours; he would have liked to go longer, but Lady Morgana would insist upon his taking a break and going to waste time playing games and such." He said it as though playing games was the deepest disgrace for a little boy. "He's gotten sloppy these years, however."

I smiled slightly and just had to open my big mouth, "Oh, I don't know, my lord. I know he thinks quite an awful lot about Camelot; that he cares a lot."

I guess I went a little too far, because the King looked up at me with narrowed, dagger eyes and inquired distastefully, "How on Earth would you attest to know that?"

"He talks to me." After that there was a rather awful silence in which several implications seem to fly back and forth between us in relation to those four words. A silent inflection seemed to be applied on the word "talks" and I hurried to try and smooth it over a little. "I mean, rather I just sort of…listen, and he just sort of…talks…to himself about it."

The King nodded slowly, still eyeing me oddly, and my mind buzzed with nerves. "Well…perhaps that is a good thing." He said, and once more it seemed as though he was only half addressing me. "He ought to reflect with others every once and a while. Just not too often."

"My lord," That was my response a lot of the time when I was speaking to Uther. Simply speaking the title could imply an awful lot depending on the situation—in this instance, it displayed a polite regard and a dismissal of the conversation. He didn't speak to me again.

And of course, I asked Gaius about it when I thought of it again in his presence.

"Arthur?" He responded, "Why, he was a very happy boy. Very spirited, very adventurous—of course, he's still spirited and adventurous in a different way—and the people absolutely doted over him."

"Uther said that he was devoted to training, and isn't now."

"Well, I wouldn't say that he isn't devoted, he's just not quite so intense about it now. Morgana's influence definitely cut it back a bit."

"Gaius, Arthur trains every morning for at least two or three hours—you're going to tell me that a little boy was more intense than that?"

"Indeed; Arthur was pressed by his father to master several weapons—"

"Mighty kind of him not to force his son to master _every_ weapon." I grumbled irritably, folding my arms and resting my chin on them. Gaius continued as though I hadn't even spoken.

"—and though, in the beginning, I know Arthur wasn't too enthused about his excessive training, he longed to make Uther proud of him. I'm sure he would have much rather been with Morgana."

"They were close as children then?"

"Oh, yes, Morgana was practically Arthur's big sister. Always getting him into trouble, dragging him off into the woods every day for exploring—he always came back with some kind of cut or other, sniffling and asking me to fix it for his training the coming morning while Morgana stood giggling behind him. I remember once, when Arthur was about ten, Uther and I entered his room to find him in a dress with Morgana putting _makeup_ on his face. Uther nearly had a heart attack."

"I'll bet." I laughed, trying to imagine a skinny blonde boy (surely he wouldn't have built up all that muscle by ten?) with alarmed, humiliated blue eyes as he was caught in one of Morgana's dresses and with ruby lipstick smeared on his lip. Arthur in all his pride and honor—his sarcasm and disdain, caught by his father dressed as a Lady. He _must_ have been a gullible child to allow _that_.

Yet, by the way everyone described him, it sounded as though he was a very pure boy—as though he was definitely lacking the previously mentioned sarcasm and disdain. Nearly everyone seemed to say that he was a sweet boy, that he seemed to love everything and everyone. Even that he seemed to always be smiling as a child—I could _not_ imagine Arthur _smiling_ all the time. The thought was oddly haunting.

Maybe this is some kind of variation of that. Not quite a sweet, innocent, gullible and blushing child, but a smiley one and a playful one. I watch in fascination as he rips a blade of grass from the Earth and twirls it in his little fingers. He has a very solemn look on his face, the kind of face Arthur always wore when contemplating battle plans and things of that nature. After a moment of thought, he lifts the blade of grass up before my face.

"I dare you to eat this blade of grass, Merlin."

"Why is that?" I ask with the odd patience of a new mother—I've never been _this_ gentle with children before, but I guess that's because I haven't really made it a point in my excessively long life to be _around_ children all that much.

"Well, I've decided that _anybody_ could just prance into my yard off the street and say their name is Merlin and they'll be my extra special friend. So, I want you to prove that you're Merlin."

"But how will having me eat grass prove that I'm Merlin?" I ask this softly and with mild curiosity—I'm still sort of in shock right now.

"Well, you say that Merlin is a wizard. In that case, only Merlin would be able to stand the grody taste of grass." In any other instance I would of course argue, first, that grody isn't even a real word, and second, that a tough sense of taste has nothing at all to do with magic or proving one to be a wielder of it. However, there's a little bit of mischief and a little bit of entertainment in the little boy's eyes, and I picture the older Arthur from all those years ago patronizing me and using his royal command over me to force my participation in his little humiliating jokes.

I'm sure that this young one is not quite so malicious yet, but I can see very clearly when it started to constitute. I shrug—it can't be deadly or anything. Why not? "If it makes you happy," I accept the blade of grass and willingly chew it and swallow.

He stares at me with big, wide blue eyes like I've just grown a second head. "You actually did it!"

"You told me I couldn't prove I was Merlin unless I did it."

He giggled, "Well, yeah, but I didn't think you would actually _do it_. What does it taste like?"

I shrug again and smile. "Like grass."

Once again, Arthur giggles and sets his toy car down—it seems as though he's decided that I'm worth his full attention. "You're weird, Merlin."

"I know," For some reason—well, I guess not for _some_ reason—I just can't stop grinning. I just can't believe that he's here. I know I must be going into shock or something worrying like that. I wonder as he starts chattering away if it's possible to die from so much heartbreak and so much relief?

"…That's what Mum says. When I won't eat my food she says that it's gotta taste better than that lake water over there. I wouldn't remember if that's true or not."

"What, you drank lake water before?" I ask, one eyebrow rising almost in disapproval. He rolls his eyes.

"Maybe, I dunno—but I must have gotten some of it in my mouth if I was just a baby, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Mum says that she actually found me in the river—like in a movie, or something."

"Then…your parents aren't…?"

"Well, Mum says that I must have been gifted to her or something; Says that it seemed like the lake gave me to her or something. Whatever _that_ means."

"You're right—that _is_ like in a movie." I agree with him distractedly. I don't know what I was expecting. Reincarnations of Uther or something? That would have been weird to see I guess—Uther in modern clothing. But the idea somehow makes me sad.

_So his reincarnation is really as alone as I am?_

No witch, no Gwen, no Uther, never any Igraine—that can't be right. Babies don't come out of lakes. But suddenly I turn to look at the lake, puzzle pieces falling together like crashing boulders, and I stare with wide eyes at the water like she's going to be standing right there on the surface waiting for me or something. Freya?

A ripple jumps silently through the water, like an answer to my unspoken thought. Mournfully, I smile a bit. Yes, Freya.

Feeling very thoughtful all of the sudden, I turn back to Arthur. Why…? Freya…? Why would she…? _How_ could she? Does she really have power like that? To call the Once and Future King back from his watery grave? I don't know the answers to any of the questions, and haven't felt so riddled and so confused in a really long time. This is healthy for me. Meanwhile, Arthur fiddles with his candy and with a creak, the front door of his home opens.

"Arthur?"

We both look up at the young woman standing in the doorway, face tired but somehow loving—she has one of those faces that just seems to always display love. Guinevere had a face like that. She looks at me in surprise, and I scramble to my feet.

"Um, hi, I'm Merlin," I stutter, holding out my hand, hopeful that she's not about to call the police on me. Half smiling, she shakes my hand.

"Julia. You walk around here often, don't you? I've seen your face before, I just know it."

"Yeah, I do,"

"It's okay, Mum," Arthur says, picking another blade of grass, "He's my friend."

"Is that so?" She smiles more widely, turning back to me. "Well, it's only natural, I suppose. Merlin and Arthur—so fitting."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…intrude…"—I was unsure that was the correct word to use—"We were just chatting."

"Not at all, Merlin. I hope he hasn't worn you out with his…_frequent_ communication?"

I laugh slightly—Arthur has stopped paying attention. "No, ma'am, he kept me very entertained throughout."

"Mm, well, would you like a glass of iced tea, Merlin? I've just finished making it—if you can get past the sweetness of it, the taste is rather enjoyable. Arthur went a little haywire with the sugar…"

I gawk slightly for a mere moment. I feel as though I would be shuffling me away from her son if I were her, contemplating calling the coppers, and she's offering me iced tea. "Thank you, but my little sister is waiting for me back at my apartment, so I should probably go…"

"Merlin!" Arthur protests, apparently deciding to join the conversation again, "No, you have to stay! Extra special friends are supposed to stay!" If there's any logic behind that, only he sees it, but I really do wish I could stay. I wish I could stay forever, because I'm scared to leave him. And I'm scared that he won't be here tomorrow. However, it's nearly five o'clock, and Tex I know will be worrying…

"He has to go see his other extra special friend now, though, Arthur." Julia told the bemused boy before looking back up at me. "Of course, Merlin, you must come back tomorrow when you have time and drink iced tea with us."

"And I will be very _angry_ if you _don't_." Arthur pouts, glaring up at me. I almost sigh in relief.

"I will," I smile down, kneeling down for a moment to ruffle his hair. "I promise."

And after exchanging a mutual "it was nice to meet you" with Julia and an affectionate wave to Arthur, I set back off towards the apartment again.

Every step I take away from him, I feel more nervous. Nervous that he's going to do something stupid without me there. But that's a _good_ thing, because that was the exact feeling that I always had before he left me all those years ago. And he's back now. And the only thing I need worry about is that I'll lose my self-restraint, grab Arthur, and leg it before anything or anyone can take him away from me again.

Nothing can take him away from me this time. That will be my new fear, and my new motivation. Nothing.

. . . .

**So, I was doing some research on the clothing that was worn in those days (mostly so that I could be more accurate with technical terms for armor and tunics and stuff like that) and I read that purple dye was very rare back then, and SUPER expensive, so only the very rich people—like, kings and queens (or in this case, princes) rich—wore it. Yay! I love putting bits of historical accuracy in my work, it seems to almost make up for the unbelievable **_**in**_**accuracy that makes up the rest of it!**

**Hey, so review, review, review! And sorry again about how long it took to post this! I should probably thank the user Lycanthretics since the review you left me on my OTHER story "Er, it's a Horrible Plastic Beach" was the one that got me off my lazy bum to finally finish this chap. That doesn't mean that every review doesn't count, lovelies! The flattering one that you left to me, however, just put the cherry on top of my ice cream sundae and I was able to finish this!**

**REVIEW! Every person who reviews, I know who you are (*unintentionally sounding like a creeper*), and LOVE you! Each and every one of you wonderful fanfiction-ers! **

**All my love and apologies for the shameful updating schedule,**

—**Tais Takara**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit! I cannot believe it took me so long to update! I felt so, so guilty that I hadn't updated in so long and then I got all depressed and then my brother was like, "Stop moping" and I was like, "No. I haven't updated in 50 million years!" and he was like, "So just update." And that was what gave me the revolutionary idea: Maybe I **_**will**_** update my story! Please accept my apologies, I am very ashamed. Please enjoy this chapter!**

. . . .

"_You spent half of your life trying to fall behind,  
You're using your headphones to drown out your mind.  
It was so easy, and the words so sweet._

_You can't remember—  
You try to move your feet."_  
—_Eet_, Regina Spektor

. . . .

Her blue eyes are very, very wide in a state of shock that doesn't seem to be wearing off anytime soon. Tex's expression might even be comical were it not for the very real worry evident in it. "You're telling me…that the King of Camelot…has been reincarnated." It isn't a question—more like a statement that she's rolling over her tongue in blank thoughtfulness.

"More or less," I mumble, nuzzling my nose into my folded arms. For the past half hour I've had this nearly uncontrollable urge to use my magic—to light something on fire, levitate an object; _anything_. It's been a long time since the magic has been this…_awake_ while moving through my bloodstream, and it rushes like adrenaline through my fingertips and my eyes and my entire body. Very awake with his life force and requesting his immediate presence.

Tex continues staring at me with those wide eyes, most likely half wondering if I'm insane, and half feeling sorry for me. Yes, the mirrors that are her crystal blue irises definitely reflect a little bit of pity.

I never told Tex very much about Arthur. He was the only part—though the most vital—of my story that she allowed me to spare when I recounted my tragic existence to her. Maybe it was because she knew that I couldn't handle describing him: describing his laugh and his eyes and his smile.

Sometimes she asks little innocent questions about him, when I seem in a very good mood (or at least as good a mood as I could ever have); small things like "Honestly, how did he handle your unbelievable _attitude_ all the time?" to which I only ever answer with a murmured "It was a long time ago…" and then descend into a quiet, mourning brooding that I know she would never rebuke me for.

And sometimes I feel guilty about not telling her more—she has a right to hear about him, I know she _wants_ to hear what he was like, but I just can't bring myself to discuss it. Every time I try that sickening feeling rises in my stomach and crawls up the back of my throat like bile, rendering me speechless and instilling an irrepressible urge to cry: an urge that I've not been able to satisfy in hundreds upon hundreds of years.

It makes me feel horribly ashamed and fixes me in one of those sad, wordless moods that I get so often. I wonder idly if it would have helped to make her believe me—if I'd recounted his passion and arrogance and kindness and loyalty. If I'd made him out to be something more than the nameless hero who'd tragically broken my heart in his conquest to save his precious people.

Now she sits down beside me, her movements slow, and—after a moment of hesitation—settles her hand safely on my shoulder. "Merlin…I know you miss him horribly—I understand, I really do, but…"

"I didn't imagine anything, Tex." I inform her matter-of-factly, though not at all viciously. I'm still in too light of a mood to be angry with anyone or anything right now.

"I'm not saying you did, Merlin, but it's possible that you just mistook someone else for him, I mean…it's been nearly _fifteen hundred_ years." She says this last part more quietly, as though lessening her volume may ease the blow of what she's telling me, but the impact never strikes, and I answer instantly.

"The day I forget his face is the day I die, Tex." And by the Triple Goddess, how well she knows that that could be exactly the case. "It's him. I can feel it."

She doesn't speak for a long moment, watching me with concern and still more uncertain sympathy. Abruptly, I feel a little guilty—only a little bit, because the ecstasy of the realization (_He's alive, he's alive, he's alive_) has not worn off, and I'm not sure it ever will—at the loss of the elation and peace that was evident in her very aura that evening when I entered. What am I thinking?

"Tex, how did your afternoon with Addisyn go?"

She snorts breathlessly and quietly, staring at me with her shell shocked big blue eyes; they're a lot like mine (one of the reasons it's so easy to pass us off as siblings) except when one looks closely enough they may see that hers have stripes of grey and amber which we believe she inherited from her mother, whose picture she keeps locked in her desk drawer. "You first inform me that Arthur Pendragon has been reincarnated in the flesh, completely and utterly certain, and then ask me _how my afternoon with Addisyn went_?"

"Well, you _looked_ rather pleased when I came in the door; was that not the case?"

Tex stares at me disbelievingly, but laughs and says quite dismissively, "I'm more pleased than I've been in weeks, Merlin." I grin widely, because I can see that it's true. Even in all of her surprise at receiving my latest piece of news, there's a definite glow about her that emanates a lovesickness of the giddiest kind. "So, tell me about him. About Arthur." And she half smiles upon finally being allowed to use his name. We have always simply referred to Arthur as "him" because who the hell else would we be talking about?

And this is where I get tongue-tied—it seems like there's so much to say. _He's adorable, he's wonderful, he's so familiar, he's gorgeous_. I suppose words like that might be a little intense for her tastes, though, and smile wistfully as she begins to twirl her fingers in my ebony hair. "He's exactly as I remember him." I grant her, and she grins widely.

"Do I get to meet him?"

I don't answer for a moment, thinking. When I do answer, there's no worry or fatigue in my tone, just dizzy, subdued happiness. "Don't really know. I'm half waiting for his mother to call the police on me."

"His mother?" She repeats with a doubtful grimace, excitement depleting a little bit. "He lives…with his mother?"

"Is it so odd for a five year old to rest in the care of his mother?"

Tex is taken aback—that much is clear from the way she withdraws her hand and gawks at me in surprise. "You forgot to mention that he's five years old."

"Did I really? Hm. Odd."

"That…" She coughs, "that certainly throws me off a little bit."

"What were you picturing," I ask smilingly, "a brawny unshaven man with sword and armor?"

"Maybe the vision was absent of the sword and armor." She indulges my good mood, but lightly slaps my arm. "How can he be exactly the same if he's…nineteen years younger than the last time you saw him?"

"His eyes." It's the first similarity that comes to mind. "Mischievous. And his lips are somehow…_arrogant_, just like they always were." That right there could be the most I've ever told Tex about him. "Plus, he talks like he's King of the goddamn world—probably should've expected that one, I guess."

"Like you expected _any_ of this." She snorts, watching as I snuggle back down into my arms. Oddly enough, I feel like I can't really talk much more. Something makes me want to just sit here, listening for his heartbeat, waiting for it. As I've been waiting for so many years. But speak I do.

"I think Freya gave him to me."

Here she pauses, hesitates, and seems to consider carefully before she says, "…Why?"

"He says that Julia found him in the lake; practically gift wrapped for her. Babies don't just come out of nowhere, Tex."

"But I thought magic could not create life without the sacrifice of another?"

"Yes, well she didn't _have_ to create his life. Kilgharrah told me a long, long time ago that Arthur—because he is the Once and Future King—would rise again when Albion's need was greatest." It seems like I'm talking more to myself now than to Tex. "…But there is no Albion anymore—Albion fell many years ago…why should he return now? And why with so little warning? Where does Freya even get power like that…?"

"Well," My ward announces, stretching her arms above her head, "I think you're looking into it too deeply, Merlin. Honestly, you've only just met the poor boy again, and you're already trying to depict his destiny."

"Someone's gotta do it." And the task has fallen on me now that the dragon is no longer with me. Sometimes, when I get my little tiffs of nostalgia, I can't help wishing that dragons had not died out as they did. More specifically, Kilgharrah. Even though I _actually miss_ (and back then I never ever thought I'd ever say these words) his riddles and his soul-piercing gaze, I am not as knowledgeable as him. This is the first time I find myself attempting to discern a fate without his wisdom and advice. Hell, he always made it seem a lot _easier_ than it really is.

"…Are you going to see him tomorrow?"

"Of course." The mere idea of committing the contrary is offensive to me.

"Good—then I'll go with you."

Don't get me wrong, I love Tex, and I _want_ her to be more a part of…whatever the hell my screwed up existence is called, but at the same time…I feel as though it's not a good idea for her to meet Arthur before I've had the chance to join his good graces (that prat just gets _all_ the attention, wherever and whenever, huh?). "Tex, maybe you should give me some time first. I…would like to have time with him."

Her eyes soften, and she smirks almost sadly at me. "Course." Content, I smile and close my eyes as her fingers run through my hair. I love when she does that—it makes me think of Hunith. "Merlin?"

"Mm?"

"…I still haven't completely determined if you've finally gone insane, but…I really hope you haven't."

I sigh and mumble, "So do I, Tex."

. . . . (1)

It has been a very, very long time since I've felt so excited and nervous and elated all at once—part of me wants to walk slower so as to give me time to think of what to say to Julia when I arrive (preferably not, "Will you give me your firstborn child?" (2)) and part of me yearns to sprint to him—to make sure he wasn't just my imagination, to make sure he didn't disappear on me. As a result, I find myself walking at a normal pace, torn and pulled between the two options.

On a whim, I kick a rock into the blue water of the lake, sending ripples along the reflection of the cool afternoon. I wait for an answer, but, as always, Freya gives none.

Sighing, I turn away and walk almost lazily across the street—the two urges are still arguing as I reach the lawn of the small house and hesitantly rest my hand on the fence. This morning, due to my lone walk here, Tex decided she'd go to Addisyn's apartment that she lives in with her single father and eleven year old brother.

"You haven't warned her that you're coming though—what do you plan to say when you get there?" I asked her, intrigued when she told me of her plan.

"Simple—I'll show up at her doorstep, ring the doorbell, and when Bailey answers the door I'll say, 'May Addisyn come out and play?' just like that. They'll _have_ to let me in."

I chuckle at the idea now—Tex standing on her best friend's doorstep with her grey scarf and wide happy grin as Bailey leans gawking in the doorway. But I'm not worried that she'll be denied access to their apartment and be left alone while I'm gone—it's easy enough to see that Addisyn is as infatuated with Tex as my little sister (for all intents and purposes) is with her. She'll be overjoyed to earn her company, I'm sure.

I guess I zone out, because the sound of my own name is something of a shocker. "_Mer_lin!" Looking up, I spot Arthur tripping down the lawn beside his mother as she holds his hand and tries to keep him from falling flat on his face. Is it possible for a child to get more adorable in one night? He's grinning widely and happily as he spots me, and practically skips forward, small feet bare and dirty.

Arthur opens the gate for me (as though its closure was what made me hesitate) and tugs me through by yanking on my jeans. Julia approaches, looking a little sweaty and worked as she clutches a shovel in her hand. "It's nice to see you again, Merlin." She smiles, readjusting her rubber gloves. "Arthur and I were just working in the garden behind the house…"

"My teacher gave me a _seed_ to plant." Athur explains gravely, looking up at me with solemn blue eyes that seem a little less credible considering the mud smeared on his cheekbone.

"Is that so?" I smirk and kneel down, gripping his chin and using my sleeve to wipe away the dirt, though he cringes and I can see it on his face as though in a disgusted sentiment: _Ugh, cleanliness_. "What kind of seed is it?"

"It's a Hawthorne (3)," He informs me.

"A Hawthorne? Why plant it in the middle of winter?" I don't mean to sound arrogant—really, I'm merely curious, and while I'm not sure what Julia thinks of the question, Arthur responds enthusiastically.

"Ms. _Smith_ wanted me to do it. 'Cause teachers are _stupid_, Merlin."

Julia rolls her eyes, "It's a class experiment. His teacher wants the class to see whether the plant grows best in the winter or the summer. Here, come inside with us, Merlin. It's too cold out here for chatting."

The house looks almost surprisingly normal when I go inside, Julia ahead of me, and Arthur clinging to my legs. I'm not sure what I expected, maybe training equipment strewn all over the floor, a rack of swords against the wall, stone flooring. But it's just a small living room with a nice couch, a telly, and a rather ornate blue carpet. I suppose, rather than training equipment, little trinkets and toys are scattered here and there.

"Oh, I'm sorry it's such a mess." Julia fusses, "Feel free to sit down, Merlin, I'm going to make some tea…"

Arthur winces as she leaves the room and—rather than letting me sit down on the couch—grabs my wrist and has me sit down with him on the floor. "That tea stuff is grody, Merlin, don't drink it."

"You don't like tea?" I ask, not at all surprised. Arthur never loved tea—specifically the herbal ones that Gaius would have me give him after a long day of hunting or training to calm his seized muscles.

"Arthur! Stop being such a clotpole and drink the damn tea!" I'd hiss, chasing the idiot around his chambers furiously.

"No! It tastes like bathwater, Merlin! _Used_ bathwater!"

"If it were _unused_ it wouldn't be _bath_water, you idiot, it would just be _water_!" And, after finally up and bolting over the bed, I'd be able to force him down and make him drink the tea, with the promise of excruciating pain if he attempted otherwise.

"It's the most appalling substance on the planet…" Arthur mumbles, a sort of far-away look in his eyes like a soldier remembering the bloody battlefield in nostalgic horror.

I snort and indulge myself with the same answer that I would give the older version of Arthur. "It's just tea, Arthur—hardly damning or appalling."

"What's damning mean, Merlin?" He asks curiously, ignoring my jest.

I hesitate before smiling and saying, "It's not important." I passively sweep his hair out of his eyes, and he allows the gesture with a wide grin, also lifting his hand to pat at my hair without purpose and in a mimicking motion of wonder. Laughing, I can't help letting my fingers linger in his golden hair. It feels familiar, yet not, and yet again I find myself sinking into a feeling of relief and affection.

_You have no idea how long I've awaited this feeling, Arthur._

_You have no idea how much I've needed you._

. . . .

. . . .

**I wasn't sure if fanfiction would be able to process my scene change sign ". . . ." and I knew that the coming scene wouldn't make sense if I didn't find some way to make sure there was a page break, so I put this number here to signify SOME kind of break.**

***Hope you guys like my random Rumplestiltskin reference* :P**

**Kudos to you if you picked up on this Hawthorne reference! I figured I'd put it in as a little ironic joke since, apparently in one of the versions of the Arthurian legends, Merlin is (more or less) enchanted by one of the Lady of the Lake's nymphs (right word?) and is turned into a Hawthorne Tree, which is (again, more or less) how he "dies." Feel free to let me know if any of that is incorrect, I'm willing to learn and I'll correct it! :)**

**Thank you all so much for putting up with my choppy updating! Please, please review to tell me what you think! I'm sorry there wasn't more Merthur sweetness in this chap, but don't worry—before I get to my major super awesome (er, maybe super awesome) plot twist, there's going to be many more moons of Merlin/kid!Arthur. Not to worry! And also, don't worry, I know it seems to be a long road ahead before actual romantic Merthur can come in, but don't be sad my lovelies! I'm just as starved for it as you! I mean, can't you tell from that whole flashback with Merlin chasing Arthur around while trying to force feed him tea and in the end pinning him down and making him drink it? I miss writing romantic Merthur so much that I have to build up sexual tension in **_**flashbacks**_** just to make myself feel better!**

**Also, I just want to let all of you know that I WILL NOT give up on this story. Even if it takes me YEARS to update it! Would you like to know why? Because every time I read a really successful Merthur story (or a story from any other fandom) I can't help thinking, "I wish**_** I**_** had a long and interesting story like that!" and then I remember, "Oh wait, I suppose I **_**do**_** have a potential one in my midst…" and thus, I am encouraged to keep writing.**

**REVIEWS HELP SO MUCH! PLEASE REVIEW!**

**Finally, in response to PhantomTrancyVongola: Haha, well, actually, I meant it figuratively. Don't worry, I don't stalk my fanfiction reviewers. :D I just mean that, since fanfiction updates me on who reviews and also who follows **_**without**_** reviewing, I know which **_**users**_** are reviewing, and I love them! Also, thanks for your continuous reviews now that I get the chance! I get lots of affectionate tendencies for my regular reviewers!**

**Oh, actually, one more thing! Do you guys think I should change the name of this story? :( I mean, I originally wanted it because it sort of had all the elements of the poem that this story was based off of, but it seems like more of a mouthful every time I look at it. Let me know if you think I should change it!**

**Thank you all, and please keep reading,**

**Tais Takara***


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! I'm so sorry about the LAME updating—off to the stocks I go. However, while I endure the pelting of rotten fruit at my head (yes, Steph, you can come too in the interest of punishing me for my ignoring your PM's), try to get through this chapter even in all your justified, huffy rage, guys! ~Shame….~**

. . . .

"_Your songs remind me of swimming  
Which I forgot when I started to sink  
Dragged further away from the shore  
And deeper into the drink_

_. . . ._

_Rotting like a wreck on the ocean floor  
Sinking like a siren that can't swim anymore  
Your songs remind me of swimming  
But I can't swim anymore_

_. . . ._

_Then all of a sudden, I heard a note  
It started in my chest and landed in my throat  
Then I realized, then I realized, then I realized  
I was swimming,  
Yes, I was swimming  
And now I'm swimming  
Yes, I am swimming"_

—_Swimming_, Florence and the Machine

. . . .

. . . .

"How do you _do_ that?" The small blonde gawks, staring with wide blue eyes as I lick the remnants of my eleventh chocolate bar from my slender fingertips.

"You're the one who wanted to compete; so I competed."

"But you're so _skinny_! You can't have enough _space_ in there for all that candy!"

Shrugging, I smile and lick my lips, "Guess I just have a stronger stomach."

At these words, Arthur's eyes narrow in irritation and competitive offense. "You do not."

"Obviously, I do,"

"_Obviously_," He mimics me, sneering, "you used your special powers!"

"Did not!"

"Did too! How else would you be able to eat all those chocolates?"

Honestly, I don't have a history of obsession with sweets—sure, I enjoy them, but it's primarily Tex I buy them for rather than myself. An occasional taste of sugar is, I'm sure, healthy for people, and it's not like I couldn't use the distraction from the bland aftertaste of my past, but in a lot of stupid ways I suppose I dislike that it distracts me. Anything that makes me feel better—or I suppose, _made_ me feel better—in addition, delivers guilt alongside it.

Perhaps it's the realization that I missed stealing chocolates from Arthur's stash of "presents-from-foreign-alies-that-Merlin-is-never- to-touch-ever" that brings back the renewed interest for the satisfying delight of chocolate.

"It's quite easy, really, I just put it in my mouth and chew," My response, were it being delivered to the older Arthur, would be sarcastic and bitter. However, this is a comical, innocent version of my infuriating king, so I only speak with contently teasing tones. This contrast doesn't satisfy Arthur.

"I'm little! You're not supposed to actually beat me!"

I laugh at this excuse, delicately tapping the tip of his small, flared nose as I taunt, "All that means is that I'm courageous enough to brave your wrath, so obviously unlike many others."

"It means that you're unfair." Arthur pouts, only half serious as amusement stains the blue tones of his typically unreadable eyes.

Another lighthearted shrug as I cave to his forcefully instilled will, "Perhaps."

"Merlin?" I look up—almost in surprise—as Julia leans through the kitchen doorway. Her expression is concerned. "Are you sure you don't have anywhere you need to be? I don't want to detain you…" But she's glancing at Arthur as she says this, for it's he who is (or rather, would be) detaining me.

With a wide grin I assure her, "Don't worry about it, Julia, it's completely alright." I half want to add, _it couldn't _be_ any more alright._

Abruptly, Arthur gasps, and I jump as I turn back to him, reflexes slow and unpracticed as I'm already reaching towards the boy, eyes skidding along his face in a frantic search for wounds (force of habit from back then, I suppose). However, his eyes are wide not with fear or pain, but excitement. "Merlin! Come see my Hawthorne Tree! I bet it's grown a whole lot since we planted it!"

Despite the fact that it's only been about an hour and there's no possible way that his plant could have visibly progressed in that time, I smile at him and say maternally, "Sure, Arthur."

He leads me out the back door of the small house into the back garden. This place, at least, seems almost one of nature. I smirk slightly as he guides me by pulling on my fingers, looking around. It would be a beautiful garden in the spring, closed off by tall deciduous trees (though now bare and haunting) that cut out the sounds of cars and people and modern day living. I almost laugh at the sentiment that arrives when seeing this small clearing. _This reminds me of the old days._

Arthur sighs, and I turn back to him curiously. "It didn't grow at all while I was gone." He sounds genuinely disappointed, and I smile, kneeling down next to him as I observe the pathetic little plant.

"Well, you know," I console my soul mate, "The only reason it hasn't grown more is because it's busy hunting for food."

"Hunting for food?" The little boy repeats, blinking in naïve wonder, and I nod.

"Yep. The new trees are pretty weak, just like people when they're little," I poke him teasingly in the ribs and he giggles as I continue, "So they have to go hunt for nutrients before they can start growing. They have to gather things like sunlight and water for a little while. Once it's gotten all of that, it'll be ready to get bigger."

Surprise ripples through my veins, caressing the slow circulatory folds of my magic as he grips my fingers in his small hand. "If you use your powers to help it, will it grow faster?" His blue eyes bore into mine as though this is a matter of pressing urgency as he awaits my reply.

Exhaling steadily, I look up at the kitchen window where Julia is watching us with a joyful expression. Upon noticing my gaze, she smiles and looks back down at her work.

My eyes drift back to his little fingers clutching at my own. I can feel my magic warming to his touch—curious for it and thirsting for it. Another reason (if I even need one) that I know this is my Arthur; my magic recognizes him. It feeds off of this touch even now as I meet his gaze once more. It melts with warm affection and whispers through the breeze of the chilled winter air, "Welcome home,"

"Well," I tell him with a smile, "There's nothing I can do for your tree, but…" Once more glancing upwards to make sure Julia isn't looking, I breathe into my hand, _tasting_ the magic in my mouth, before producing a small little pink and white flower to my king. He gasps in shock as I conclude, "this ought to be pretty enough to keep you entertained till spring."

Arthur sends me a suspicious leer before picking the flower up and twirling it between his fingertips. "What kind of flower is this?" He asks.

"A pink and white rose,(1)" I answer thoughtlessly as he admires it. Abruptly, Arthur grins at me widely.

"Thanks, Merlin!"

Smirking affectionately, I murmur "You're welcome," before rising to my feet again and leading him back inside—I have to lead him because he's become too obsessed with looking at his rose to pay attention to where he's walking.

"So isn't there a big long name for what kind of flower this is or something?" He inquires curiously.

"Er, I'm not really sure," I respond sheepishly.

"Merlin, what's your last name?"

"Emrys," That's sort of an inside joke of mine.

"Well then, I'm gonna call it an Emrys."

"I'm quite honored, I assure you."

"You _ought_ to be," He sneers, parading in ahead of me with this exaggerated, nearly regal manner that I guess I only should have expected him to have. Everything about him, even now in the modern day, emanates royalty so strongly that I'm half waiting for him to start scolding that I should be addressing him as "Sire."

After Julia emerges from the kitchen and curiously asks where Arthur's beautiful flower came from, and Arthur loudly replies that "We _found_ it in the _garden_. _Jeez, Julia_," before winking exaggeratedly at me and running off to put it in a vase of water, Julia sits down with me in the living room.

"He calls me that when he gets particularly rowdy," She muses, sipping from her tea. Mine sits on the coffee table, untouched, as I wait with somewhat rigid stature for Arthur to return from his venture into the kitchen. I smile at her in gratitude.

"Thank you for being so…hospitable to me, Julia."

"Don't worry about it—even if I didn't like you, Merlin, Arthur wouldn't stand for it if I refused to have you over. All he kept talking about yesterday after you left was what a cool warlock you probably are and how he bets you've even fought dragons." The overworked mother rolls her eyes which Arthur doesn't catch as he comes back in.

"He _has_ fought dragons though, _haven't_ you, _Mer_lin." He glares at me in request for clarification. I smile tenderly and amusedly.

"A few." I grant him restrainedly, and he snickers in some kind of satisfaction and self-triumph as he plops down on the floor, yawning. After a little while of chat with Julia while Arthur hums to himself and clings to my legs, I finally murmur with plain regret, "I should probably go now…"

Arthur's so far gone that he doesn't even grunt in protest as Julia lifts him into her arms and smiles at me. "It was good to have you here, Merlin. This one's somewhat difficult to entertain at times. You do it marvelously."

"Well, I must say, he's much more entertaining to me than I probably am to him." Even as I address Julia, my eyes rake over the sleeping boy, searching for a hold on this lovely child. Searching—almost as though for sport—for those little similarities of when he was the King of Camelot. They pop up everywhere.

He has the same expression when he sleeps; his fingers still do that funny twitchy thing when he's unconscious (back then I always assumed it was an instinct that made him prepared even in sleep to reach for his weapon); He still has that habit of struggling with objects around him—right now, it's Julia.

I know that particular one from one of the times when the knights had gone hunting with me and Arthur. Gwaine—being Gwaine—had brought several bottles of ale with him, and when I refused (given my lightweight sensitivity to alcohol), Arthur gladly drank my share. He passed out beside me, and I suppose I hadn't the rationality to move away because he was clambering all over me all night. At times he'd thrash and slap at me, push at me, and then other times he sort of nuzzled me, almost as though cuddling my side before he'd lash out again.

"Merlin," Julia caught my attention again, "You could come again…if you want to. And…I'd very much like to meet your sister; she could come with you. Arthur enjoys being around girls—girls that aren't me, that is." As she says this, Arthur pushes dazedly on her chest, as though trying to get away from her in sleep.

"Don't worry, he's always done that."

"What?"

"Nothing—In that case, I'll bring her with me. She's interested in meeting Arthur, as well," Every time his name passes my lips my eyes dart to the child in some kind of abstract yearning that I suppose the pinpoint source of is the ever-present aftershock of getting him back. _What's happened to me?_ I muse as Julia smiles and grants me another farewell, _I've turned into some pedophilic psychopath._

Of course, though, I suppose that can't be accurate considering I'd rather drown in a pool of my own blood than see Arthur hurt—especially now. Then again, that might be why I'm sort of a psychopath. Hm; either way.

I rein in the urge to touch the boy—if simply to brush his cheek or sweep his hair from his face—and thank Julia again before pulling my coat back on and exiting the house.

It still feels just as surreal, just as unbelievable. I almost wish I were more hesitant in truly believing it. Even as I walk farther, I feel so comforted in the knowledge that he walks on the same surface I do once again; that he sees and smells and tastes things just like he used to and that the King of Camelot has returned even though there seems no purpose in it now. Camelot has fallen, Albion has fallen, the gods' motives can only be guessed at in reincarnating him. (2)

When I arrive back at the apartment, Tex is back already. She's lit a fire in the mantle and is sitting curled on the couch with her tea, sipping quietly from it as I walk in. She looks up with a wide smile. "How did it go?"

"Well,"

"She didn't call the coppers, then?" She teases, stirring her tea. I disregard the slight flush on her cheeks as I respond.

"Nope. In fact, she asked me to come again. And she wants you to come."

"Me?" She repeats, "Why?"

"Mm, probably so she can confirm that I'm not some insane creep trying to steal her kid."

Tex laughs, "You look the part."

She's probably not even wrong, I suppose. I pretty much have permanent purple rings lining my lower eyelids, that's not too friendly of a signal, I suppose. "Will you go with me?"

"Well, I have school tomorrow, and then I'm babysitting Bailey for a few hours…"

I have the personal opinion that the only reason Addisyn's father pays Tex so much for taking care of his son is either that Addisyn bullies him into it or that he feels sorry for a fourteen year old girl and her hardly-un-teenage brother. It could be both, I suppose…I like to lean towards the first one for Tex's sake.

"But I'll be back around five. I'll go with you then, if you like."

"Sure," I tell her, pushing away the anxiety that clambers at me—what's that, about twenty-three hours away from him? Honestly, this is just pathetic…and yet I'm nowhere near regretting it. "Did Addisyn let you in?"

"Yep; I told you she would."

"How'd she put up with you?"

"Eh, we watched Brokeback Mountain."

I cough loudly, nearly choking on my laughter. "_Brokeback Mountain_? She let you put her _through_ that?"

"Yeah…yeah, she did." She smiles to herself in that lovesick way again, and it seems oddly private, so I look away.

"How did that work? You sob every single time you watch that movie."

"So do _you_, Merlin. But I actually didn't cry this time. Addisyn did." She sounds oddly exultant as she says that. "Was absolutely bawling; it took me a good half hour to calm her down. I guess that's cause I was laughing too hard to actually be any comfort."

"I'm certain that it will be your excessive sensitivity that snatches her up, Tex."

"Of course."

With a chuckle, I begin to play with my magic. It's been a while since I've done that—just creating little shapes in the steam emerging from Tex's mug, first a dragon, then a flower, then a tree…

"…It's been a long time since I've seen you like this," Tex smiles after a while, mimicking my thoughts.

"Mm?"

"Since you've been so…I don't know, in synch with your magic. In a weird way, it makes me feel really at peace or something seeing that."

I don't answer and after a long moment, she continues.

"…It's Arthur, isn't it?"

"I just…I don't know, my magic has…missed him so long and yearned for him so long that now I have him back I don't know what to _do_ with myself." A shallow laugh that hides something like fear, "You'd be surprised how much 1500 years of brooding can do to you."

"Yeah…I guess I would." She murmurs, watching me with an amused expression as I absently carve an A into the steam with my eyes, feeling so hyper, so…powerful. I haven't felt so much power surging and pulsating beneath my skin in a long time. "So…tomorrow, I meet him, then?" Tex asks excitedly, and I grin at her.

"Yes, tomorrow you meet Arthur."

. . . .

** guys, guess what? I was looking up different kinds of pink flowers that I could use in this chap, and one that came up was a "pink and white rose" that symbolizes "I love you still and always will" and (after I squealed for a good five minutes) I decided to use it.**

**2.I'd like everybody to know that Merlin's religious beliefs in this story correspond with Mary Stewart's take on Merlin's life in her Merlin Trilogy. I tie the little information we're granted about the Old Religion (which I'm guessing refers to paganism?) in the show into the polytheistic beliefs of paganism. I'd also like everyone to understand that I only possess any amount of knowledge about paganism through the Greek faucet (et. Zeus, Hera etc.) and therefore will use these gods/goddesses throughout the story for examples. I may specifically mention Moros "the God of destiny" which probably isn't a surprise to anyone; the site I read about this god from further described him as "dark, unknowable, all powerful. Even the gods are subject to Moros." The idea, however, is—as is Merlin's belief in Mary Stewart's wonderful books—that there is one god(ess) that sort of represents the whole of the gods and, to connect this with the Old Religion, my new theory for Merlin's religion is that the Triple Goddess is this overseer of the gods. Anyway, the point, I suppose, is that Merlin is polytheistic in this story. (Also, if anybody happens to be wondering, I guess that means that Tex is polytheistic too since she was basically raised on Merlin's stories of medieval time.) Hope that clears things up! **

**Now then, a lot of coming chapters are going to be kid!Arthur/Merlin so there won't be a ton (most likely any) plot progression besides the rising of Arthur's affections for Merlin and vice versa. I'm still not sure how many chapters, so I apologize since from here on (though not FOREVER, of course) it's pretty much filler stuff. If you're not too pleased with the kid Arthur/Merlin dynamic, I apologize for inconveniencing you. If you enjoy it, extras for you!**

**Also guys, you can expect a lot of the flashbacks from Merlin throughout those fillers. I personally feel like it really helps to connect Kid Arthur with Older Arthur when you link things like that. You guys should let me know if you have any cute ideas for funny flashbacks! Otherwise, it's pretty much thought-of-the-top-of-Tais'-head-cutes-y-ness.**

**PLEASE REVIEW, IT ENCOURAGES ME SO MUCH.**

**Love,**

**Tais Takara***


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